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| Jack and Jackie - twinsies |
I've known alot of Carols, some delightful, some definitely not. And I've know a slew of Jackies, Jacquies, Jaclyns, etc. and shared a certain kinship with them, and Mrs. Kennedy of course. I rather liked the name, I saw it as sporty and a good fit for my jeans-outdoor-book-please-causal self. It was quick and tidy to jot down on school papers and it stuck pretty well, even if it did continue to draw comparisons with my aforementioned-balding-plump dad. Whom I loved dearly, another plus.
My name stuck until 5th grade, when the debacle happened. When I eagerly opened my 1971 yearbook, Challenger, thumbed to the page for my class, scanned down for my name and found.....Jacqueline Driggers? What? There was no explanation. I had never heard of a real Driggers and still haven't with the exception of the torn page of a New York City phone book "liberated" by my friend Nell, with a mysterious entry for Jackie Driggers.
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| Jackie Driggers |
Regardless of it's origin, the nickname stuck. To this day, So though I moved 100 miles away, and over 40 years have passed, when I am "home" in Seaboard or it's environs, I still answer to Driggers. Always, Driggers.
Here, though, first in Chapel Hill, then in Durham, I've remained Jackie except with the addendum of MacHardy. And a few variations.
When my younger son hit his college years and really began to tower over me, he began to remark that I looked like a little gnome, scurrying about my business. So yes, I became Gnome. Sometimes Mama Gnome. And I still sometimes answer to Gnome.
But in my family, even that name has been eclipsed by a new moniker. It happened like this.
In 2013 my older son began dating his (now) wife, who is a whiz at board games. Especially word games More especially Scrabble. In a a valiant attempt to train for potential Scrabble encounters, he took our Travel Scrabble to the beach. (Training for Scrabble. I never said we were jocks.) He also took a list of 2 letter and 3 letter words, words with Q, with Z, with X. And we began to play. He and I. Mano a mano. Doing my part to help with Cupid's sting.
Generally he beat me, but in my recollection. I held my own, but was quick to contest a dicey word. And indeed, the boy played BUGE.
"It's not a word!" I insisted.
"It is!" he demanded.
Ultimately, the ensuing throw-down fight ("WHAT DOES IT MEAN? USE IT IN A SENTENCE!") resulted into a dictionary dive. It was nowhere to be found, and that, I thought, was the end of Buge.
All sense of sportmanship was lost, resulting in my college graduate son and I slinging nonsensical barbs. "You are a buge!" which became truncated to simply "Buge!" which then somehow became the name I am most called by my sons.
So much so, that when I saw my first born this week, and returned a box of junk that had washed up at our house, he took out his newly rediscovered label maker and labeled me.
It stuck.
